Interior Decorating
by wanderingwidget
Summary: James was in hell. Hell looked a lot like his office. His office looked like someone had set a hungry wookie loose in it. Rcursing HouseWilson preslash


**Title:** Interior Decorating

**Author**: wanderingwidget

**Pairing: **H/W pre-slash

**Word Count:** 4444

**Summary:** How Wilson may have come to understand House.

**Warnings:** slash, angst, slight AU (I've basically ignored Wilson's reaction to House's parents in 'Daddy's Boy' but it was for a good cause!), House's parents, unbeta'd as of now.

**A/N:** This is yet another fic that started as a dream. Specifically it started as a dream of Wilson asking House a question, and House then evading an answer. I thought on it, brooded on it, came up with many scenes that are not here included, and ended up with this. Con-crit/beta-commentary would be well appreciated and snuggled, as I'm always paranoid before posting a fic in a community.

_Present_

Wilson sat on House's couch, which had turned into his couch somewhere between his third beer and House getting up to fiddle around with his piano. It was odd, but soothing, the way he worked his way through the piece in fits and starts. Wilson could count the number of times House had played for him without resorting to his left foot, the music seeming to flow from somewhere inside. But this was new, he wondered if House were trying to learn a new piece.

A glance over the arm of the couch proved otherwise. House's shoulders were stiff with displeasure, his back a straight line of disapproval. He watched, silently, as House pushed himself to his feet and limped - sans cane - over to his bookshelf. Lesser pianists filled their piano benches with sheet music. House filled three entire shelves. He stood in front of them, scowling, his eyes scanning the bindings and binders in silent accusation.

"What were you playing?" Wilson asked, crossing his arms behind his head and watching House through half-lidded eyes.

"Crap." He replied, then pounded his fist against the wall.

Wilson winced. "Why did you do that?" He said his face open and curious.

House stood, his fist still pressed to the plaster, arm and back still rigid. He didn't look at Wilson. Instead he kept staring at the shelves. "Why did I do what?" He said.

_1996_

"Do what?" Greg said. He was staring up at him, which was just plain weird, but given the fact that he had just projectile vomited over the rail surrounding the outside track James wasn't that surprised.

"Uhm." He gestured at the steaming pile of puke.

Greg rolled his eyes, forced himself to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth. "Well, Dr. Wilson, sometimes when the human body is placed under higher than usual stress -" He began, voice obviously patronizing.

"Can it House. Why didn't you stop?" He said. His hands landed on his hips, it was a habit he'd picked up because of the lab coats and now - it seemed - it had migrated out into his regular life. It felt weird to have his hands planted against his sweats, not his slacks.

"I did stop." He said, still controlling his breathing.

"Why didn't you stop earlier?"

"I'm not a wuss." Greg bit out. His breath caught and he ended up trying to hack up a lung.

James caught him and managed not to scowl too much. At least there wasn't anything left in his stomach to come up. "I'm not calling you one."

Greg had his arms wrapped around James' waist, his head tucked against his side. "Good." He said.

"You're a regular manly man, all strong and silent in the face of pain."

"Damn straight."

"Now all you need is a woman to screw and a beer can to crush against your forehead."

Greg pushed himself up, or tried to, and ended up hanging off his shoulders instead of his waist. His breath was that horrid mix of sweet and sour vomit stink. "If I didn't know better." He said. "I'd think you were making fun of me."

"Really?" James shifted his grip as Greg leaned more weight on him. He wasn't light. "You know, we spend much longer like this and the nurses are going start talking again."

"Talking _again_?" Greg pulled his head back to blink owlishly at him.

"Are you in shock?"

"Nope. The nurses talk about us?"

"Every minute they get. What, you didn't know?"

Greg shook his head.

"But you're practically the King of the rumor mill." James said. "Hell, I half-thought you'd started them."

"Started them?" Greg pulled back further.

James kept his grip, maybe a little longer than necessary, but Greg didn't look too steady. "I'll take that to mean you didn't?"

"Let go of me. Why would I start rumors about us?" He was frowning, his eyebrows drawn together the way they did when he was seeing a lab result he didn't like.

"I don't know, for shits and giggles. Look, don't worry about it, it's just a rumor. They probably only decided we were together because we're always hanging out."

Greg shook his head. "We're not together."

"I know that. Why are you getting so uppity about this, it's just a bunch of bored nurses flapping their traps."

"I'm not getting _uppity_."

"Yes, you are." He planted his hands back on his hips.

Greg rolled his eyes. "You ready for another lap?"

"You're going to run again after _that_." He nodded at the no longer steaming pool of vomit.

Greg shrugged.

"Why?" James demanded.

"Why what?" Greg stared at him, eyes perfectly blank. It was the same look he used on his boss, the same one he used on some patients.

"Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"That look."

Greg rolled his eyes. "I'm going for another lap. Coming?"

"You're insane."

"So that's a 'no'?"

"Yeah, that's a no. See you at lunch?"

"Can't. Busy."

"You're busy. What could you be busy with?" James said.

But Greg didn't answer; he'd already taken off down the track.

_1998_

James was in hell. Hell looked a lot like his office. His office looked like someone had set a hungry wookie loose in it. It couldn't be happening. Papers were strewn everywhere. Files, memos, and months old grocery lists mingling unashamedly across his desk, chair, and floor. It was a free love convention for office detritus. Lilly Potter's file humping 'milk, bread - white, rice pudding' over the Berber in a silent 'fuck you' to conservative white parents. It was a mass grave.

God. _God_.

James had never been terribly religious. He tended to the major holidays, sure, but he only kept kosher at his Grandmother's and he'd had a Christmas tree ever since his first wife - Sally - had dragged him out ornament shopping. He knew the words, he just didn't believe them. Not really.

He really wished that he believed them now. They could have been a comfort, if he'd believed them, but instead they were like lead weights around his neck. He couldn't breathe, couldn't cry, couldn't _think_. All he knew was that he couldn't lose him, couldn't lose Greg. It would tear him apart. He couldn't take it. His second marriage was already in the tank, slowly circling the drain, and Mortar, the damn Dean, had been trying to run him out of Oncology for the last three months. Greg couldn't -

He couldn't even think it. He felt like he was going to be sick.

That fucking _asshole_. That _fucking_ asshole.

Anger was better, cleaner, sharper. It didn't make him feel like he was suffocating. It made him feel like he was breathing pure oxygen. Anger was better than fear. Better than -

No. Stop. Greg needed his support, not his anger. Greg needed him to be strong, or at least not tearing into him. But it had been so damn hard, watching him after the bypass.

Stacy had run away from him, locked herself into the women's bathroom and refused to come out. She'd left him to deal with Greg alone, and she'd left Greg to deal with his pain alone. James could swear that he'd felt every scream torn from Greg's throat as if it'd come from his own. Greg had begged for drugs, for relief, half-delusional from the pain and the morphine he'd even started begging for death. All James could do was sit there and hold his hand, playing his part in the same scene he'd seen acted out almost every day, reduced to mouthing false platitudes in the hope that saying that the pain would end could make it so.

Now Greg wanted to put himself into a coma. A _coma_. As if going to sleep would make it go away. But the pain, if he could somehow sleep through the _pain_, if he didn't have to sit there and listen as Greg screamed his throat raw again. It was selfish, James knew, but he almost wanted it.

It was stupid, was what it was. He didn't understand what was going through Greg's head. Well, yes, he did understand it. Enough morphine to run a street corner was running through his head, but that didn't make this a good idea. In fact, that made it an emphatically _bad_ idea.

The stupid leg. It wasn't worth dying over. It wasn't even worth the pain. But Greg was like a bear in a trap, trying to help him only got you mauled; leaving him alone would only get him dead. He wouldn't listen. To anyone. He wouldn't listen to Cuddy, him, or even Stacy. He wouldn't listen to what his much-vaunted brain must be screaming at him, that it wasn't worth it, that it was just a leg, and that he should have let them take it as soon as they'd known how bad it was.

It'd become a battle of wills, and James had yet to see anyone win one of those when their opponent was Greg.

The clock on the wall told him that it was ten to five; they'd be inducing the coma soon. His friend would go to sleep and - one way or another - this would be over.

_Present_

"What were you playing?" Wilson asked. He crossed his arms behind his head, he watched House through half-lidded eyes.

"Crap." He replied, then pounded his fist against the wall.

Wilson winced. "Why did you do that?" He said, face open and curious.

House stood, his fist still pressed to the plaster, arm and back still rigid. He didn't look at Wilson. Instead he kept staring at the shelves. "Why did I do what?" He said.

It was another one of those heavy silences that seemed to characterize their relationship. Another one of those points where Wilson could say the wrong thing and be free of it all. He'd never have to look back, even though he knew that he would. He closed his eyes. He could conjure up so many different images of House. The first time he'd met him. Jogging, playing HOUSE instead of HORSE in the hospital parking lot, swimming, boxing. Dying.

He opened his eyes, nodded at House's fist. "What'd the wall ever do to you?" He asked. "Did it insult your mother, call your shoes unfashionable, flick you off?"

House shook his head. "Nothing so dramatic, it just looked at me funny."

"Funny?" Wilson questioned.

"Funny." He confirmed.

"You're a dangerous kind of guy then, assaulting unsuspecting walls just for giving you the eye."

"Oh yeah, that's me, Hair-trigger House." He limped away from the wall, swatted at Wilson's feet and dropped onto the couch once he'd moved them. "You probably shouldn't be hanging around with a guy like me. I might influence your impressionable young mind."

Wilson snorted. "Yeah. Brilliant, introverted, piano playing. You're everything my mother warned me about."

"You forgot the drugs." He added airily.

"Ah, you're right. I shouldn't be here. If my Mom ever found out I'd be in _so_ much trouble." Wilson made to stand but was stopped by House's hand on his arm.

"She'll never know if you don't tell her." He said.

"Lie to my mother, are you high? No, don't, that's a stupid question." Wilson said, but he let House keep him on the couch. He looked down; one of House's knuckles was bloody. "You're bleeding on my shirt."

Greg let him go. "Sorry."

"Why'd you do it?"

_1997_

The first time he met John House it took all of James' self-control to keep from punching him. The first time he met him was at Greg and Stacy's 'Definitely Not Engaged' party, also known as their one-year anniversary. Greg had warned him that his father was an asshole, but that hadn't prepared him for the utter _Houseness_ of House Sr. James wasn't very impressed by Blythe either, though he didn't have any urges to belt her, so that was an obvious improvement over her husband.

Greg's parents were short, shorter than he was, and the first thing out of his Father's mouth once he walked into the apartment and saw James was "I knew it. He's gone and proposed to a fairy."

James didn't hit him. He offered his hand. "James Wilson, I'm Greg's friend."

"Is that what you're calling it?" John said. He took his hand and tried to squeeze the yolk out.

James took his hand back. "That's what it is."

"Sure." John said.

Blythe smiled weakly at him. "Pleasure to meet you dear. Greg's told us all about you."

This he could do, he was good at stupid talk. "Let me guess, all of it's bad?"

"Oh! You're early." Stacy exclaimed from over James' shoulder.

John pushed past him. "And who might you be?"

James turned and made the introductions.

Dinner was uncomfortable in the way his first dinner at his first girlfriend's house had been. Greg's father felt the need to comment on everything, especially on how his son _obviously_ didn't deserve such a gorgeous woman. In between belittling his son and praising Stacy's cooking he also found the time to tell them all about how he'd been worried he'd raised a fag the way Greg had never had any relationships, and wasn't it such a relief? The man would. Not. Shut. Up.

Greg stayed silent, unless asked a direct question, to which he'd either answer 'Yes' or 'No' in a toneless voice. He picked at his food, appetite obviously dead, and James found himself picking at his as well. They both made up for it by working their way through a bottle of red before the main course was done.

Through it all Blythe remained a quiet spectator. Every once in a while she'd manage to work in a question about Stacy. What did she do for a living. How did she and Greg meet.

_1998_

Quiet, he almost didn't hear the knock on the door over the beating of his own pulse in his ears. He opened the door and he must have looked as awful as he felt because Stacy (who looked even worse than he did) stared at him in something that looked like shock.

"I don't know what to do." She said. She stumbled into his office and he got her into a chair before her legs gave out. "I don't know what to do." She repeated.

"Did they induce the -"

"No, not yet." She stared at the bottom of his tie. "I don't know what to do."

He'd never liked making people stare at odd parts of him. James pulled the other chair over so they could look into each other's eyes, they were almost knee-to-knee in the cramped space. She stared at him with bloodshot eyes and it was like looking into the eyes of a patient's mother. He was dissociating. That was… interesting.

"What do we do?" She reached out, clutched his hand in both of hers.

Her hands jerked him very firmly back into the here and now, and he didn't like it one bit. His pulse pounded in his head, behind his eyes, an embryonic migraine forming.

"What do we do?" She whispered.

And maybe it was because she'd spoken so softly, maybe it was because he didn't want to say it, but his voice was just as quiet. "We wait."

Stacy straightened, released his hand, and dabbed at her eyes. "The doctor." She said. "She told me there was another way. A compromise."

'No, oh no. Don't ask me. Please don't ask me.' He had the feeling that he knew what was going to come out of her mouth. He could already hear it, see it, see how it would all play out.

"Debridement, they might not have to take his leg." She said. She'd straightened up, her 'closing arguments' stance. God, she was good. "After he's in the coma I'll have medical proxy. I could-"

"You can't." He said. He hated himself.

She looked like a kid who'd not only been told that Santa didn't exist, but had been shown the decayed carcass of a reindeer.

He was shit. He was the shit of the things that ate shit. "He'd never forgive you." He said.

She rallied. "Yes, he would. Once the pain's gone, he'd understand. He'd have to understand."

He nodded. "He would understand." He said. "But he'd never forgive you."

"How can you say that?"

"Because it's the truth."

She snorted. "And you always tell the truth?"

He didn't have an answer for that.

_Present_

"Ah, you're right. I shouldn't be here. If my Mom ever found out I'd be in _so_ much trouble." Wilson made to stand but was stopped by House's hand on his arm.

"She'll never know if you don't tell her." He said.

"Lie to my mother, are you high? No, don't, that's a stupid question." Wilson said, but he let House keep him on the couch. He looked down, one of House's knuckles was bloody. "You're bleeding on my shirt."

House let him go. "Sorry."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Why'd I do what?" House leaned back.

Wilson reached out this time, pulled him back. It was like pulling on a wooden plank. "It's okay, you know." He said.

"No, it's not."

"Says who?"

"You know who. Don't do this."

Wilson tugged him closer, so close House was practically in his lap. "Don't do what?" He said.

Everything about House was saying 'no.' The way he was holding his body, stiff and frail at the same time, the look in his eyes. Wilson ignored it all and pulled him into a kiss. It was not soft, or gentle, or anything that could be mistaken as soft or gentle. He parted his lips in an invitation and House, with a groan, answered it.

Seconds - or hours - and one flying shirt button later House pushed himself back as if burned. He stood, limped back to the piano, and stared down at the keys instead of looking at him. Wilson blinked, momentarily dazed, then stood and followed him.

"Greg." He reached out, his hand hovered over House's shoulder.

"Don't."

"Look at me." Wilson said.

He didn't turn around.

"How long are you going to do this?"

House shook his head. "I can't stop."

"Why, because of _him_? He's a jerk and you know it."

"I can't."

Wilson sighed, dropped his hand to his hip then lifted it to rub at the back of his neck. "Damn it."

"That's it, that's all you say, 'damn it'?" House said. He turned around, arched his eyebrow.

"Yeah. That's it." Wilson made himself step back. "Mind if I crash in your guest room?"

"Mi casa es su casa."

"Thanks." Wilson turned away. "It's late."

"Yeah. It is."

_1997_

By the time dessert was served, Stacy's mother's Apple Crisp with original vanilla Breyer's, Greg was drunk and James had managed to bruise his leg gripping it to keep himself from lashing out. It wasn't his place. His mother had always taught him to stay out of other families' problems. It still sucked. He still felt like he should be doing something to stick up for his friend.

"Why are you here?" Greg said. He stared at his father over the crisp, his eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

Blythe stepped in. "You invited us dear."

"Yeah, but why'd you _come_. Since when do you give a shit?" He was still staring at his father.

John slammed his hand on the table. "How dare you say that?"

"Very easily." Greg said. "I want you to leave now."

"You're drunk." John said.

'Bravo.' James thought. 'You can state the obvious.'

"Extremely. Go, now." Greg said. He waved his hand in the direction of the door.

Stacy and Blythe exchanged a look that seemed half sympathy and half 'what can you do?'

"It is getting late dear." Blythe said. She stood, placing one small hand on her husband's shoulder.

Father and son were still locked in a staring contest. Finally, John pulled away and stood.

"I'll show you out." Stacy said. She turned pleading eyes to James and he nodded, watching them disappear around the corner and listening as they said their goodbyes.

He slanted a look at Greg. "Are you really drunk?"

Greg stared at the table. "Drunk enough."

"Okay. Why don't we get you to bed?" He suggested. Greg didn't protest, which was as good as agreeing in James' book.

In the bedroom Greg froze, staring down at the bed and frowning.

"Come on, you'll feel better after you sleep it off." James said.

Greg looked up at him. He was swaying where he stood. "What if he was right?" He said.

"About what?" James said. He reached out, grabbed his elbow and steadied him.

The answer didn't come in words. Instead Greg leaned down, pressing their lips together in a quiet, desperate kiss. James thought he sobbed, could feel him shaking and wrapped an arm around him to keep him from falling. "Can we sit down?" He asked, once Greg pulled back. "You aren't a lightweight."

They sat.

James made himself breathe. "What if he was right about what." He repeated.

Next to him Greg shuddered, but didn't answer. "I'm drunk. I should go to sleep before I do something stupid."

As easy, and as complicated, as that. James nodded. "Yeah."

_1998_

He hated three a.m. as much as it was possible to hate an insubstantial human social construct. God, that was something that Greg would say. He looked up, stared at his unconscious form, looked away. This couldn't be happening. He was sitting vigil by his best friend's _deathbed_. His stats were dropping. It was only a matter of time.

'At least he isn't screaming.'

_Bacteria_ were above him. He was lower than single-celled organisms.

Stacy had been gone for a little over an hour, having pleaded hunger and a need for caffeine. James was pretty sure that she'd spent most of the time in the bathroom again, but he wasn't going to comment on it, he couldn't blame her. He couldn't sit still anymore though. He tossed the magazine on the floor and stood.

He paced back and forth. Picked up Greg's chart, stared blankly at it, hung it back on its hook. He paced. He stared at the monitors. He paced. He stared down at his friend. He was already starting to look dead. Not dead dead as in _actually_ dead. James had seen dead dead and he knew that - in its early stages - it could look just like life. No, he looked dead the way it looked on television or in the movies. Dead the way you saw after the mortician drained the blood and padded the suit with newspaper.

Gone. He looked gone.

James didn't remember falling, but when he opened his eyes his forehead was pressed to the mattress, his hands fisted in the sheet. It didn't make sense. This didn't make sense. None of this made sense. Nothing had made sense since that first damn phone call.

_"Hey. Pulled a muscle. Think you could take a look?"_

"I'm busy. Why don't you go to the clinic?"

"That's a joke, right?"

"I'm busy, House, some of us have actual jobs you know."

"Hey, it's not my fault. Mortar's had it out for me since he came to power."

"Yes, he's just been biding his time, arming his secret police. You didn't falsify that patient's records, it was a clever plot to overthrow your wise and just rule."

"Knew you'd see it my way. Now, what'd'ya say buddy. You, my leg, five minutes, one prescription, everything's hunky dory."

"I can't, I'm busy."

"Come on"

"If it's really that bad then go to the clinic and have a doctor look at it."

"I'm a doctor."

"House."

"And I'm trying to get you to look at it and you're a doctor."

"Damn it Greg, I am hanging up."

"But Jimmy, I thought we were best friends forever."

"Goodbye."

He was in hell. He didn't believe in hell, but he was in it, he knew that as sure as he'd known it the night his brother had disappeared. He could feel it like a snake wrapped around his heart.

"Don't die." He whispered against the sheet, his nose full of the smells of bleach and sweat and blood. "Please don't die." He forced his hands loose, flattened them, tried to smooth out the wrinkles. The tips of his fingers brushed beneath the pillow, caught on the edge of a folded sheet of paper.

Hell was cheap bleach in his nose, cheap cotton beneath his hand, cold linoleum beneath his knees, the feel of two days stubble on his face, and the brush of a harmless piece of fucking paper against his fingertips. He pulled it free and wasn't even surprised to read his own name scrawled just below the fold.

_I know you won't forgive me, but I'm sorry anyways. -G_

The paper crumpled in his hand and he didn't even feel it. He stared at his clenched hand as if it weren't a part of him, as if some alien force had taken hold of it. This wasn't hell. This was worse than hell.

"James? Are you alright, what's wrong?"

Stacy's voice. Stacy's hand on his shoulder. Stacy's concern and Stacy's sensible black pumps. It was only then that he realized he was still on the floor, still half-lying on Greg's bed. He pushed himself up and it felt like stepping off a boat and onto solid land.

"What's wrong?" She said.

"Do it." He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look at any part of her. Not her puffy red eyes, or the fifty-cent ring Greg had given her for their one-year anniversary, or her sensible black pumps.

"James -"

"The debridement. Tell Cuddy to do it." He looked up, stared at the empty chair against the wall.

"I don't understand. You said-"

"I know what I said." He made himself look at her.

She must have seen it in his eyes, must have seen the truth, the fear, the anger. Because she nodded, and she walked away.

He stumbled back to the chair, sank onto it with all of the grace of a dead albatross at a samba dance. And Greg, unconscious, unaware, unsuspecting. Greg slept.

"Why?" James whispered. He let his head fall back against the wall, stared up at the blank ceiling tiles. "Why did you do it?" He asked.

He never did get an answer.

**END**


End file.
